


HELD

by Nika_Bo



Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: Aggressive Harry, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Basically a Flackfest smutfest, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fisting, Harry is young and potent and up for it anytime, Light Dom/sub, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slutty Caroline, Vaginal Sex, Who's Caroline to say no to that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-09-17 19:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nika_Bo/pseuds/Nika_Bo
Summary: “It’s basically about a nympho.” (HS)Yup. Question is: who’s who??Songfic, based on STOCKHOLM SYNDROME.Caroline Flack is hosting the X-Factor final 2015 and attending the after party. Her former lover Harry Styles it there too. Memories of their time together come rushing back to her mind. They are wonderfully dirty…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, this one has taken me forever. I've been circling this topic for a long time, wanting to write something about Caroline because there seems to be a distinct lack of stories regarding her and Harry (unpopular ship??) and I find this cougar theme quite intriguing, especially his apparent ease with it. Listening to HS1 live versions of Stockholm Syndrome and then hearing that infamous nympho quote again was the igniting spark to get down to it.
> 
> I initially wrote short, non-chronological sequences on my phone, all in a stream of consciousness style, past tense and from the female POV only. Trying to piece these all together has proven surprisingly difficult, mostly because the 2 lead characters insisted on having present time and dialogue and yeah the male POV might come in at a later date too. Added hectic work chaos in RL and a general lack of motivation, a dash of writer's block and fabulous ff distractions from dolce_piccante (shout-out to the queen! Xoxo ) have made this first chapter take forever but here it is!
> 
> I have pretty much "fucked with that one" to use a HES quote in terms of accuracy regarding timeline, dates, locations etc.... most of it really, for this story to work the way I want it to. Thus extending the period of their relationship/ hookups (at least the publicly documented by the tabloids one) from roughly Oct'11/ Jan'12 to the summer of 2011 through until the end of 2015.
> 
> All ye who disliked the whole Flackfest situation, leave now or else abandon all hope!  
> This one will be dirty. Shamelessly so!
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated! Hate, not so much.  
> Enjoy, be kind, you're wonderful!!!
> 
> This one is dedicated to hes.wreckedme my lovely chum on IG because she is fun and fabulous, a wee bit fractured like myself and equally fanatic about all things Harry.  
> Love ya girl, this is for you... You know why!!!  
> Xoxo

_She is sitting in front of her vanity table, carefully applying her make-up, already on her third attempt at drawing a cat-eye flick. Her fingers are unsteady but she refuses to put that down to the fact that she’s about to attend an event where it is a more than likely possibility to run into him._

_Which is why she bothers with a bit of morning restauration in the first place. Normally she would head into the studio barefaced, let the capable ladies in MU arrange her face to telegenic gorgeousness but he and his bandmates might be there too for early rehearsals. It is their final performance before the hiatus after all! And she’d rather look good when she happens to cross paths with him._

_Him._

_It’s been a long time since their last encounter but he has always managed to upset her equilibrium like nobody else. Has always been the one that got to her in ways nobody else did. Or could. Has always remained superior. Ultimate._

_He’s not only the youngest she has ever had. He is also the biggest. And the best lay she’s ever had. And he’s the only one she has ever allowed to go… there. Enough men have suggested or downright requested. She had always refused them. But with him…?_

_Somehow things had naturally developed, progressed, or maybe spiraled madly into. She’d been hesitant at first but he’d been so sweet and careful. And then he had made her come like a fucking freight train. Repeatedly. And she couldn’t get enough._

_It’s been years but she still remembers. Everything. Their sweating bodies: slick, entwined, convulsing around, into each other. Spasming. Coming. Again and again._

_Nobody had ever fucked her like that._

_None of the pimpled, clumsy guys in high school or the existential college musos nor the hipster media guys and colleagues she’d dated. Not even the sophisticated and affluent, kinky middle-aged MP she had seen for a bit._

_No! Only this goofy and cute, radiantly sweet-smiling boy. Who had slipped into the role of ardent lover like it was a shirt he’d simply had to shrug on._

 

 

Summer 2011, then…….

An entire nation, an entire kingdom is enamoured with five boys. More precisely an entire kingdom’s _FEMALE_ population is enamoured with a group of boys: five young, sweet and attractive guys with great haircuts, wonderful voices and a quirky, silly sense of humour.

She has heard of them, of course! In the television sector where she works news get around fast and there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that these five are the next big thing, that 1D is destined to make history. The media channels are ablaze with rumours, stories, gossip about _THOSE_ boys. _THAT_ band.

The hottest new thing fresh off THE X-FACTOR where they only made the third place, yet bound to send the music industry quaking. Snide remarks, barely coating the jealousy, are circling around about Simon Cowell and his shark-like instinct to smell the next drop of fresh blood in a diluted ocean full of mediocre pop wannabees and his ability to turn it into a million-dollar success. This band, it’s said, has the potential to break the magical one billion limit of revenue.

The five of them are all similarly sweet in a puppy kind of way: playful, cuddly, adorable. But one name is mentioned more often than the others. One name is spoken with a hushed kind of awe, in a tonality which suggests an excitement beyond new and interesting.

Comparisons are being drawn between him and the four others; attributes such as sweet, attractive, sexy being elevated in his case to charming, charismatic and stunning.

Harry. Harry Styles. Two R’s, two Y’s, two S’s. A name so effortlessly cool it could not have been invented. It’s a name that resonates long after with a frisson of arousal and leaves one with a fuzzy, tingling feeling of happy elation and impatience for the next encounter.

She has to admit she is curious to meet its bearer in the flesh, wants to see if all the developing hype and hysteria surrounding the band and especially him is based on something tangible.

Real. Justified. 

***

Times passes.

She learns that he has declared to have a bit of a crush on her and is flattered by it. His adoration,  labeling her as gorgeous. It’s a charming compliment that amuses her, feeds her thirtysomething vanity. But it could come from anyone, her twin sister’s kid for example. It’s a childish fancy, harmless, not taken seriously.

That is until she comes face to face with him for the first time interviewing the band. He is nervous, embarrassed. Yet beneath his charm and blushing smile is an appetite, a dark hunger that unsettles her. It is disquieting, dangerous. An advance, a chase of a manchild, ambiguous and tantalising, his gaze too intense, too brazen it its intention.

Open. Straight. Direct.

Shamelesssly roaming across her body, envisioning things. She can tell by the way he moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue, that pale jade stare lingering in certain places: her mouth, legs, breasts.

She should get annoyed by now. Would, if it were anybody else, scolding them for their inappropriate behaviour, their impertinence.

Not with him.

She wants him to look at her like that, undress her with his bright green gaze, to see her. All there is to her. And she gets flustered in his presence, blood rushing to cheeks and organs, heartbeat accelerating and moisture pooling in areas too long neglected. And she realises she wants, desires, willing and preemptively consenting to whatever as long as it will take place.

With him.

She’s confused. This was not supposed to happen. She should prevent this. Tell him off. Tell him to stop. She doesn’t. So he keeps pursuing her, is obvious, almost blatant in his intentions, his endgame clear.

***

She starts dreaming of him, wakes up in the night, gasping and aroused, the echo of a dream still with her. Him. Him doing things with her, to her, using his long, slender fingers, that beautiful pink mouth, the mystery of his cock, which she hasn’t seen, only heard rumours about, a daydream fantasy of something epic, gorgeous, breathtaking. Recalling his physique she is willing to believe.

She envisions herself opening his jeans, sneaking in a hand, and seeing his eyes darken, pupils widening, mouth going slack and all cheekiness disappearing, replaced by helpless desire; his brazen confidence weakening at her touch while physically hardening under her hands, delivering himself into her control. Succumbing, pliant. At her mercy.

Stroking him to steel she might go down on him, suck him into her mouth, kneeling yet completely controlling him that way, knowing he’ll lose himself to her like that, knees buckling, hands helplessly tangling in her hair, a curse and her name broken on his lips when he comes for her, loving and adoring her in that minute for the way she makes him feel as he climaxes, spilling himself down her throat, and her swallowing greedily, already high on his taste.

She tries to withhold, ignore her over-imaginative mind, to stay away for as long as she can but eventually she caves, fuelled by alcohol and loneliness and summer hormones.

***

It happens at a fancy rooftop summer party of a fashion magazine when she finds out he is attending too, alone, for once not joined by his four musketeers of bandmates and no management sitting on top of every comment and reaction from him.

She has already pegged him as a bit of a maverick, someone able to go off on a tangent, not just in terms of conversation but also behaviour. Unpredictable, exiting, captivating.

It is not her intention to find him in the melee but they still meet a good half hour after she’s arrived. Perhaps he has been the one looking for her, decided to approach when he sees her standing by herself at the buffet pondering whether to choose a cubed tuna parfait or a miniature truffle polenta.

“We should just go down to 5Guys at Covent Garden for fries and burgers or find a greasy spoon on South Bank where they do a decent Branston’s pickle sarnie.”

She laughs. It’s refreshing to meet someone who is equally uninterested in fancy appetizers and her stomach growling in ravenous hunger seems to agree. “Let’s go!”

“Really?”

His surprised smile is a supernova eclipsing everything else and she finds his enthusiasm organising a taxi from the venue a few minutes later endearingly cute. It’s almost as if he is afraid she might change her mind if he takes too long procuring a vehicle but she has decided that she’ll rather spend the evening with him in a tiny café sipping weak tea and eating soggy fries than to be bored playing with London’s jeunesse dorée for another hour.

Most of her friends and media colleagues are away on holiday anyway and she’s been feeling lonely and self-conscious at the party, having only agreed to come for the sake of free champagne, a lack of alternatives and the chance to wear her latest purchase of a floaty summer dress.

Sitting in the back of a cab minutes later she realises that the dress, when not standing tall with a glass of champagne held to her chest but sitting long-legged with five-inch heels in a tiny Uber, is quite revealing, the chiffon-y material deceptively tight across her ample chest, the thin spaghetti straps sliding off the shoulders and the slashed skirt developing a tendency to fall open across her thighs.

She has to give Harry credit for doing his best to not stare at her bare legs, his cheeks reddening  while he tries to keep his gaze above her collarbones and comes up with more and more absurd topics of conversation to diffuse the sexual tension in the car.

It seems as if they are both slightly relieved to finally find themselves at a free table in a small Persian café somewhere behind Borough market, grateful for the distraction of reading their menus, deciding on drinks and dishes, the only moment of embarrassment when their eager waiter lights the candle on the table to make it _“More cooozeeee!”_ as he puts it.

“Any more cozy and I might do something disgraceful in public!” she thinks. “Something like sitting down on the boy’s lap whose face is alight like Christmas and kiss him stupid.”

She hasn’t been on a date in a long time and this isn’t really one, it’s just two people having dinner together but it feels like a date because their mutual attraction is obvious and the subtext of what they want from the other hangs heavy in the air between them.

While eating – they’ve decided to order a selection of various small dishes to share – she relaxes and realises that she hasn’t had this much fun in forever, certainly not in the company of a 17-year-old boy and she needs to remind herself, repeatedly, of his age because she forgets about it, his demeanour being grown-up and wise beyond his age.

He makes her laugh with stories about life in the fastlane, the hectic and overwhelming routine of promoting the band and recording their first album, then suddenly switching into seriousness, his Northern accent slow and sexy while discussing art, music and literature. He is a clever one, interested in various things and she feels at ease with him if slightly flustered, aware of his gaze staying on her even when she looks down at her plate.

He insists on paying the bill and waves off her thank you before asking if she would like to go for a walk. She agrees and they exit the café and make their way past the empty market halls down to the Thames. It is a beautiful balmy summer night and the river bank pleasantly empty, due to the late time and it being a week day. They walk past the Globe Theatre towards Tate Modern and he asks her if she would like to see the Rothkos sometime because they are fierce and vibrant and beautiful and make you feel things.

She agrees, kindled by his passion and from there it’s easy to let him grab her hand when they walk across Millennial Bridge towards the white dome of St. Paul’s and stop in the middle to look across the black waters towards the East: London stretched out before them with the Shard, Tower Bridge and Canary Wharf illuminated against the ink black backdrop of sky.

He is standing behind her shoulder, his right arm beside hers on the railing of the bridge, his thumb drawing tiny circles on her wrist and his body a warm, solid presence along her back. Time seems to slow down, night narrows and she shivers from the tone in his voice when he asks after a long moment: “Can I kiss you?”

Not trusting her voice she only nods and then his mouth is warm and soft against the top of her naked arm, right where it curves into her shoulder. He places several small kisses towards her neck, his left hand brushing her hair aside, fingertips ghosting along the top of her spine.

She closes her eyes and tilts her head sideways, granting his mouth better access to her skin. Holding in a breath she focuses on the gentleness of his caress, her body sagging backwards into him and he sneaks one arm around her waist to steady her.

A moment later he opens his lips below her jaw and when his teeth scrape across her pulsing vein she makes a sound that has him bite down and pull the soft skin into his mouth. He is sucking a love bite so intensely it is bordering on painful and she moans again and lifting her right arm above her head, fists her hand into the silk of his curls and pulls him closer, eager for him to devour her, desire blazing through her body like a fire.

Perhaps he registers her hunger or is equally ravenous, his arms enveloping her, long fingers clawing into her hips, pulling her backwards and flush against him, his arousal hard evidence against her ass. The sensation turns her stomach into a pool of molten heat and she turns around in his embrace, his sucking mouth coming away from her neck with a wet smack and then she cradles his face in her hands, pulls him down and crashes her mouth to the pink perfection of his lips.

***

An hour later she is lying in bed, moonlight streaming through the curtains and absentmindedly running her fingertips along her still tingling lips.

The kiss goodbye he’s given her in front of her apartment twenty minutes ago could not have been more different from the one they’ve shared on the bridge. It has been slow and sweet and just like boys used to kiss back when she was still seventeen.

A smile plays across her face remembering the plump softness of his mouth, lightly brushing against hers, the pressure building when he had pulled her closer, the tantalising way his tongue had finally coaxed her lips apart to indulgently explore her mouth, his tongue teasing hers, playful and waking a hunger for more.

She had felt fragile in his embrace, two long arms encircling her like something precious, the languid way of his caress fuelling a mellow burn inside her veins, still simmering in quiet intensity long after he’s driven away in the cab.

Raw carnal hunger and slow sweetness, he is a master of both and her heart skips a beat imagining his versatility as a lover. And damn, he is seventeen. Only seventeen! She should not think of him as a lover at all! Her thoughts are interrupted by her phone beeping, indicating a new message.

“Thanks for your lovely company this evening. So, are you up for Rothko and ramen next weekend... if the powers that be let me off???”

She thinks for a moment about various possible consequences of going out with Harry Styles before typing out her reply.

***

Ten days later he takes her to see the Rothkos as promised and they have lunch at a tiny Japanese near her flat. Earlier at the Tate Modern Harry had been approached by several people, tourists and giggling teens, asking for pictures with him. He’d been kind, obliging, with a charm and a smile that is positively panty-disintegrating.

She has observed his interactions and the fact that the boy has seemingly no idea of the power and charisma he possesses is mindboggling and she hopes that he will never find out. He’ll be devastation once he does.

Perhaps what surprises her most is how confident he is when it comes to women. He isn’t downright cocky but has a certain ease and sassiness, along with his way of focusing his attention completely on the other person it makes one feel like nothing else exists for him.

It is very alluring and combined with his beauty and youthful energy it’s no wonder females, young and old, are falling over themselves to meet Harry Styles.To meet him and wanting to bed him straightaway. She has never considered herself a cougar before but there is something irresistibly tempting about the prospect of a stunningly pretty, charming and excitable boy in your company. One who leaves no doubt about his willingness to spend time with you between the sheets.

She has used the past ten days contemplating the pro and contra of hooking up with him and by the time he has walked her home and kisses her on the doorstep in that slow, sweet way again she can’t think of a single reason not to invite him in for afternoon tea.

***

In the kitchen five minutes later, busying herself with the kettle, tea bags and finding some cookies, she tries very hard not to be distracted by his presence while he’s sitting at her table, those slender fingers fiddling with an empty mug and looking like a school boy trying his best to be good for the teacher in hope of being rewarded for his efforts later.

She feels nervous like a teen, losing her nerve when she asks him: “How do you take your tea? Strong? Sweet? With cream?” and it all sounds like innuendo to her. Apparently it does to him too because he raises his eyebrows and the side of his mouth curls up in a slow smirk until a deep dimple cuts into his cheek.  

For a second she wants to slap him for being naughty and making it so damn hard to resist him but then she laughs and rolling her eyes in capitulation leans down over him for a kiss and whispers. “Strong and sweet it is.”

The quick peck she intends turns into a long, indulgent exploration when he pulls her down and onto his lap, involving her in one of his slow, gentle kisses that turn her brain to mush and has her very bones liquefy. She slings one arm around his neck and his left hand is traveling across her belly up towards her breast, caressing her until her nipples harden beneath the thin material of her tank top and he twists them between thumb and index finger, pulling them until she moans.

She’s cradled in his arms like a child, body arched towards his touch and his mouth is slowly nibbling along her jawline, down her throat, his tongue cool and sensual along her collarbone. Just as his fingers fiddle with the straps of her top to expose her upper body to his lips the old-fashioned water pot begins to whistle shrilly.

Never has she regretted it more not to own an electronic kettle with automatic switch-off function than in this very moment. Harry mouth is reluctant to let go of her skin when she sits up straight.

“The tea water,” she apologises.

“Forget the tea, am not thirsty anyway!” he mutters against her cleavage.

“But the kettle…”

He gets up so quickly that she slides off his lap but he immediately hooks his hands around her bum and hoisting her up walks over to the stove to turn off the gas hob.

“There. Done.”

Her heart leaps from the way he looks at her – impatient, his eyes dark and hungry – and the ease of him carrying her around like she weighs nothing heats up her blood with the knowledge that he’s strong enough to maneuver her around however he likes.

“Clever boy!” she praises him and is rewarded with another kiss. Wrapping her legs tighter around his lean hips she lets him walk them back to the table and place her down on the edge of the polished wood. He stands between her thighs like he belongs and she cradles his curly head between her arms and smiles into his hair when he pushes his face down between her tits and sighs like he has found his nirvana.

The graceful line of his nape, those dark curls and baby soft skin there make her stomach coil with want as his mouth is hot and hungry through the thin cotton of her shirt and when he finds a beaded nipple and sucks it between his lips against his sharp teeth she hisses and claws her nails into his flesh.

***

Bathed in sunlight in her kitchen – their clothes strewn on the floor by now – he looks like a young prince with his silky soft hair, pretty like a Disney version and it is a stark contrast: the innocence of his face and the carnality of his lean and muscled body, full petal lips sucking hungrily on her tits, hands roaming, grabbing, fingers exploring, probing. And that cock… there is nothing Disney about it.

That beauty is pure porn. The dirty, hardcore kind.

His hair is messy and curling with sweat, his gaze bright, lips swollen and red, so red from their kissing and he is thick and hard under her hands; is eager and impetuous, with the right amount of coltish sweetness and wild hunger as he bends her backwards until she’s lying down flat and mounts her on top of her sturdy oak kitchen table.

She expects him to be rutting away like a typical hormonal teenager. He is only seventeen after all so there will probably be no finesse or sophistication whatsoever. But she doesn’t care because there will be ardent passion and desire and…

She cannot finish that thought because he is big and hard and absolutely perfect, coming to her deep and powerful and she is already on the brink of losing it from the incredible sensual rhythm he sets, clinging to him as he grinds himself into her deeper and deeper in slow thrusts that have her gasp, then moan, the pant his name as her body spirals more and more out of control until she finally squeezes her muscles so viciously tight around him that he groans and bucks up into her erratically, filling her with warmth.

 

 

_Standing in her dark kitchen, waiting for her Uber driver and drinking a pre-show glass of bubbly she stares at the kitchen table. If she concentrates enough she can almost see the spectral silhouettes of their bodies there, can feel the ghost of his weight on her chest, the memory of his cock filling and stretching her, molecules of his taste in her mouth and the scent of his skin like perfume in the air._

_A shiver runs over her entire body, electricity fizzing, ready to spark anew. She downs the last of the champagne, grabs her purse and walks to her front door as her phone buzzes, announcing the arrival of her car._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,
> 
> sorry for being MIA for so long! I stayed with my brother in Sydney and was completely offline for 2 months, spending time with my family and lovely two nieces.
> 
> When not imitating various characters for the lil' ones (I do a hellishly good Olaf the Snowman impersonation by now) or singing Sweet Creature during wee wee trips with the small one or trying to not throw in CLEMENTINE everytime someone sings Baby Shark at toddler meetup I have been productive, writing stuff for two new stories (LUNA PARK and POOLING) on my phone memo or an old college block with a pen (yeah, I know super oldschool!) while sipping salty caramel cocoa in Max Brenner's @Westfield.
> 
> Been back a week now, overcome jetlag, and hope you haven't given up/ forgotten about me... yet. To placate y'all here is the next chapter in the Flackfest smutfic epic. Hope you like it. Feedback as always is appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy. Be kind. You're wonderful!

 

 

_The city is still empty and dark during the ride to the stadium, the windows of her Uber glistening with rain, tiny droplets making their way along the glass, reflecting light from the streetlamps. She leans her head against the cool pane and tries not to think of the way water used to run across Harry’s body._

_Sweat, beading on his temples, darkening his hair and making it curl or trailing in a slow rivulet from the hollow at the base of his throat, along the centre of his body, down his sternum and the groove between his abs to disappear in his bellybutton;  soapy suds, clinging to his tanned shoulders before sliding along the curve of his biceps where she had gathered them with her fingertips to arrange them on his eyebrows, top lip and chin, turning him into a bubble bath Santa. A sheen of summer rain on his naked back, mixed with blades of green and daisy blossoms on his tawny skin from that time he had fucked her in the backyard, ignorant of neighbours and her inability to stay quiet, had fucked her through the rolling thunder of a late September storm, rain lashing down on them as he had driven her into the lawn, her fingers seeking purchase in grass and dirt until he had turned them around and told her to ride him like the fucking National!_

_And she had, oh how she had. Recalling those first weeks of their affair it seems as if they had hardly done anything else._

 

 

Summer 2011, then…….

He is an excellent pupil, attentive. Takes his cues from the way her hips rise to meet him. How her fingers grasp and pull at his hair to bring him closer. The pants and moans that fall from her opened lips. Those are the teachers that tell him what to do. How to do it until he is rewarded with her falling apart, coming undone for him, clenching and shivering around his tongue or fingers or cock and pulling him down, into and over the edge with her.

The way he is looking at her while he maneuvers her legs over his shoulders before he gets down to business. The noises he makes while eating her out, looking at her like a cat who has gotten the cream and is really, really into the cream. His eyes shiny, slow-blinking as if dazed and high on her juices confirming in a low raspy drawl “God, you taste so good!” before delving in again.

Deeper, Hungrier.

Later, when he is moving above her like a God, or a demon, saying her name with so much longing in his voice as though he is far away and missing her while he’s inside and so deep, impossibly deep.

She can’t remember ever being so completely enthralled by somebody. He has become her addiction, weekends spent with each other, inside each other. Hours stretching into days. Physical soreness shifting to pain to pleasure again. Bodies as pillows to rest on, as blankets to hide under, as refuge to crawl and live in.

They are incapable of quickies. Whenever they hook up it’s like their bodies become instantly addicted to each other and can’t stop grinding into, sliding over each other. They have to fuck several times in a row. Almost as if each orgasm fuels the hunger for another one.

Harry tells her that his bandmates joke about him being completely pussy-whipped. They are standing in her kitchen, kissing like teenagers – well, 50% of them are one – and she laughs against his mouth and asks: “Are you?”

He sneaks his hand under her dress, into her knickers and two fingers up her pussy, then pulls them out and up to her mouth, coating her lips with the moisture and before delving in to slowly kiss and lick it off replies: ”Of course I am!”

He proves the validity of his statement mere moments later when he makes her lie down on the kitchen table, sits down on a chair in front of her, pulls her panties off and her legs over his shoulders and eats her out like she is a five-course menu.

She comes so hard that he has to carry her to the bedroom because she’s completely out of it. He undresses her, puts her in the middle of the bed, strips naked himself and after placing kisses all over her body slow-fucks her to another climax. 

 

 

_She smiles recalling that night. She had woken up around 5am to birdsong and dawn breaking outside, with Harry lying on top of her, sleeping, his tousled hair tickling her skin, one hand curled possessively around her breast and his morning wood an insistent pressure still lodged inside her. She had slowly managed to turn them around, still connected, and begun to slowly grind herself deep down on that rigid perfection._

_His eyes opening had been the most beautiful thing. Lashes fluttering slowly, his pale green gaze dazed and unfocused, a slow smile stretching his mouth, as he hummed low in delight before he had closed his eyes again and simply given himself over to her to do with whatever she’d wanted._

_Despite all his alpha male qualities Harry also had the amazing ability to subject himself completely to her will and not necessarily needing to be asked for it. He had seemed to gauge when the moment was right to let himself be dominated, picked the time deliberately too whenever he felt like it, happy to let her be in charge of him. It had been a massive turn-on for her._

 

 

Then……

The fact that he bites his bottom lip every time she grabs his cock for the first time, inhales a moan as if her touch is too much for him, comes as a shock, is beautiful to see. She likes to capture that bottom lip once released in a bite of her own while stroking him with a slight twist of her hand, making him moan even more.

He sounds so wonderful, the raspy low timbre of his voice perfectly suited to the intimacy of their meetings. The way he sighs her name between hungry kisses when she riles him up gives her goosebumps, makes her stomach flip and moisture pool between her thighs so by the time she lowers herself down onto him she is so slick, ready and hot that he curses sliding into her, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation and his hands digging painfully into her hips, moving and pulling her deeper where he needs her to sheath him completely.

And then she rides him, in slow gyrating circles, bends over so they can kiss again, tongues dancing around each other, her hair tumbling down around his face, his arms pulling her to his chest, fingers raking along her spine while he raises his hips to thrust up into her.

“Caro.” Her name an incantation on his lips, turning into a chant as she picks up the pace, faster and wilder until he arches in wanton desire, groans and comes in spasms of heat shooting into her, clinging to her like a drowning man until she follows and crashes into him.

***

It’s autumn when she meets the girls for lunch at Sketch where they all compliment her on her glowing complexion. She puts it down to a new skin regime suggested by her facialist. Never in a million years would she tell them that it is owed to the fact that she had woken this morning to find a curly head buried between her thighs, belonging to a beautiful 17-year-old boy who had been licking and fingering her to her first orgasm of the day before he’d slid into her with the overwhelming gorgeousness of his thick cock and fucked her to orgasms two and three.

That she had then showered and dressed for her lunch date and left him in her rumpled sheets, tousled and flushed, with the promise to be back soon and the commencement of their activities. The last image of him on her bed, all long lean lines and seductive smile, one arm thrust behind his head: biceps bulging, slender fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking, already hard again. And a wild impatient hunger in his eyes which had almost made her pull out the phone and cancel her date.

It had cost all the willpower she possessed not to stay home with him, in bed, but she had allowed herself one final indulgence. Leaning over him she had bent down for a slow sensual kiss while wrapping her hand around his and helped him stoke his pole to the very brink of completion, causing him to curse when she had turned around and walked out, the cadences of his moans and her name as he came the last thing she’d heard as she had closed her front door.

***

He takes revenge on her when she enters the flat hours later in the darkness of the early November evening. She has barely closed the front door when he attacks her, naked, grabs her from behind and pushing her against the wall, reaches under her wool dress, rips her knickers away and nudges her legs apart with his knees before hoisting her up and entering her before she has a chance to protest or process the whole thing.

Four thrusts, slamming her into the wall and she is on the edge, ready to come for him, her body attuned to his every move, the way his hips roll against hers, his mouth hot on her breast, three fingers of one hand shoved into her mouth to keep her from screaming, she licks and bites them as he pounds into her, claws her nails into his back, pulling him closer as he groans and curses against her flesh, the pain making him even more aggressive. She expects the silhouette of her body to be a permanent indentation on the wall by the time he’s finished.

But he’s not done yet, not even close!

Doing his very best to fuck her through the wall he ploughs through her first and second orgasm and when he lifts up both her legs from around his waist, higher, her ankles all the way up on his shoulders, into a position she didn’t know she had the flexibility to do, her body basically folded in half and his groin hitting her pubic bone with every wild thrust she comes for the third time, so hard she screams into his kiss, fused to his lips, desperately sucking his tongue into her mouth because she still needs more of him inside her and he seems to know because he comes and the sound and feeling of him releasing into her takes her fully over the edge and he follows right behind, his hips stuttering as he pumps into her.

Both of them are swaying for long minutes afterwards, panting and dizzy from exertion and adrenaline, before eventually sliding down the wall and collapsing onto the rug, into each other and falling asleep in the corridor almost immediately in a tangle of sweaty limbs and hair.

When they wake the next morning, cold and sore and stiff it doesn’t keep them from picking up right where they’ve stopped, their hunger for each other greater than the need for comfort, hygiene or breakfast.

And she knows he is the best fuck ever when he serves her another two orgasms in a row, makes her laugh and cry at the same time because he is so good, has so much control over her body that he can probably just give the command and she will instantly dissolve for him.

 

 

_“You have a glow about you today, I hardly need any blush!!! Or highlighter!” The make-up guy looks at her curious. “Okay, darling, tell me, who is making you walk on clouds this early in the day. Have you and Olly finally hooked up?”_

_She laughs. “No!!! You know we’re the best of friends and I keep it strictly professional between the two of us.”_

‘A lesson I have learned a few years ago from a boy about half my age _,’ she adds in her mind and recalls the final weeks leading up to the epic blowup that had been the discovery of her affair with Harry. ‘_ The same boy whose memory makes me glow like a fucking disco ball and who could probably still make me come using nothing but his voice and a look!’

_She is tempted to ask if the band is in the stadium yet but too scared that he might put two and two together. Most people on the team know about her and Harry’s past. It’s a thing she cannot escape from, a veritable scandal, forever attached to her name._

_Perhaps it was lucky that they had been discovered, the pressure from the public, the negative press and death threats from over-obsessed Harry fans becoming too much for both of them to handle, mostly her, and reminiscing about the way their relationship had progressed, or maybe begun to madly spiral into, it had all been for the best in the end. Hadn’t it?_

 

 

Then…..

He’s become her drug and she needs her daily fix, needs to shoot up constantly. Luckily he is willing, eager and more than ready to comply, provide, feed her with his tongue, fingers, cock, stuffing every hole, filling her greed, sating her hunger.

There are endless moments where he is buried balls-deep in her pussy, a finger shoved up her ass and his tongue fucking her mouth and her just OPEN for him, for all he has to give, be it saliva or seed, high as a kite on the feeling of intrusion – _So deep!_ – his possession – _So complete!_ – and her fucked out to synapse-frazzling ecstasy.

And then him falling asleep on her, in her, sated, exhausted, sweaty and heavy on her body, pinning her down, impaled on his digit, speared down by his cock, pierced by his tongue.

He is living inside her!

It will be only a matter of time before friends, colleagues and ultimately the press get wind of their affair. Her official MO is _No comment!_ or flat-out denial. The unofficial is “Oh my God, baby, do that again. And again.”

They try to fling sand in the eyes of press and public as much as they can while secretly being at it like rabbits. The nagging buzz of inappropriateness is a constant background noise but she manages to drown it out with her moans and Harry’s gasps. He is too young for her but Gods he fucks like no one else can. Or will. And he lets her do things to him, with him, that nobody else will ever allow.

Just the other night she had ridden him for what felt like hours and he had laid there afterwards, still inside her, panting and covered in sweat, absolutely exhausted and said:

“Fuck, I love it when you use me like that. Do it again please. Now! Do it, Car, fuck yourself on me some more!”

And licking into her mouth, tongue moving around in hungry exploration he had hardened inside her once again, God bless that incredible stamina, and she had sat up, circled her hips around his length, again and again, building a different rhythm this time. Not frantic but slower, insistent, winding them both up towards ecstasy. Arching her back she’d thrust  her tits into his caressing hands, kneading, pinching, finally gliding down her flanks to settle on her hips, thumbs moving, digging in, mirroring the slow eight she’d been gyrating, his rigidness deep within the centre of her motions, her true north, the very fixstar of her existence.

Their existence, the point where they melded and joined and united in mind-blowing singularity. Where she had to push down onto while he bucked upwards into and she moaned and he cursed, their hands entwined to a white-knuckled grasp and their simultaneous release became a crescendo of garbled vocals and rushed blood in her ears before she collapsed onto the glistening canvas of his sweaty skin, the heat of it seeping into her cheek as his come filled her body with more warmth.

They fell asleep right there and then, a deep, dark sleep, bordering on unconscious. Exhaustion leaving them motionless throughout the night, still joined until morning.

***

Inappropriate. Unhealthy. Sick.

It seems as if all those attributes attached by the people and media to their relationship, once it becomes public, are fast becoming the very characteristics connecting them to each other. Becoming the maxim by which they operate. They seem to bring out a darkness in each other lately that surprises them, unsettles them, maybe even worries them a little but at the same time is so enticing, alluring and exhilarating that they have to give in to it, drown in it, be consumed.

Her thoughts take turns into strange territory at times. Kinky, forbidden.

His hands.

They are almost absurdly large. Too large for a boy his age. They are the hands of a man. A big man. A man capable of doing great things with them. Powerful things. Violent things. Unspeakable things.

Grab, tear, hold, choke, punch, fist.

She gulps and reaches for the fridge door, suddenly feeling parched despite the wetness between her thighs, desperate for a glass of water, a momentarily relief from a dizzying thirst for something else entirely.

She has no idea why his body tempts her so much, why the sight of him, individual features of his beauty, elicit such carnal cravings in her. She has desired men before, thoughts about them exiting her. But never on this level.

Is it the added layer of taboo? The inappropriateness of their affair? His youth?

She doesn’t know. All she knows, with absolute certainty, is that she will let him do anything he wants. That she will put herself at his disposal, invite him to squander and lay waste to her, will beg him to use and spend her like she’s made from infinite.

She wants him to reap and rake her in, to just take and take and take ‘til she ceases to exist.

***

They do their best to eradicate their physical forms in those December days, kissing, licking, fucking each other with the desperation of two people sensing that things are coming to a close, greedy like addicts, impatient for their next fix, for more kisses and touches, another fuck, a final orgasm, a merging of limbs and skins, bodies dissolving in sweat and sensory overload, only the rushing of blood, throbbing arousal, sound of moans and sensation of completion real to them.

She dreams of the two of them clinging to each other, desperately, while dozens of hands from invisible forces are pulling them apart. Waking up in a sweaty panic she feels tears on her cheeks, wipes them away before Harry turns his head to her, sleepily pulling her into his arms. “You okay, Car?”

She nods and tells him to go back to sleep. But when she hears his soft, deep breaths minutes later she silently begins to cry.

 

 

_Sitting in the green room, waiting for the 1 st AD to call her onto the stage for a run through of the opening segment she takes a sip of water, then controls her make up in the mirror on the wall by running two fingers along her lower lashes, her gaze unusually bright._

_It is hard to admit but she fucking misses him, still, misses that exultation she can apparently only experience with him! Misses the way he has been able to make her feel. Unlike anybody else she has been with since him. She craves it, wants it back, wants him back in her life, in her arms, in her bed, in her system._

_HIM._

_The drug she has abstained from for too long._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,
> 
> sorrysorrysorry for being MIA for months but RL has been an absolute fucking bitch lately and my muse went away on vacation and I had times where I feared he would never come back. Alas, he did and here it is, the latest chapter in our merry little smutfest!
> 
> As usual feedback is deeply appreciated, hate unwelcome as ever!  
> Enjoy. Be kind. You're wonderful!  
> So is our darling Gucci god.  
> Damn, I love him!!!!!!

***

 

_It is almost lunchtime and she is in the middle of rehearsing with Olly and the camera team when there is a noticeable increase in noise, a sudden surge of energy, excitement in the air and she knows what it means even before turning around, feels her stomach twist into a knot of apprehension and prays inwardly for calm and a neutral face expression._

_And then he’s there, effortlessly gorgeous in a blue Hawaiian shirt and his black skinny jeans, being lanky and tousled, red-lipped, perfectly polite and utterly fuckable. Surrounded by his bandmates and members of the production team, Simon Cowell and the other judges, he seems to be the epicenter of everything, everyone revolving around him in orbits of curiosity and adoration, captured by that gravitational pull of his magnetic personality which has always drawn people in wherever he went._

_She has witnessed it often enough, that charisma which he seems to have been doused in and that has all attention instantly shift to him when he walks into a crowded room; everyone simply unable to look elsewhere. He has too much charm, is too beautiful, his aura intense, radiating so much warmth and positive energy that people immediately transform into their own best version in his presence. Like moths to a flame they flutter around him, eager to stay close to that light and kind love he exudes._

_It is addictive._

_Harry is smiling and shaking hands, then envelops someone in his long monkey arms and she remembers the feel of those hugs, has received enough to know the very degree of body heat he emits, the accord of his perfume, hair product and body wash which creates the equivalent of an olfactory orgasm, knows the way he looks at you when you let go like the embrace hasn’t lasted long enough for him._

_The tech guy he releases seems to have grown taller, younger, his earlier frown replaced by a look of happy elation shaving off a good 5 years of wrinkled skepticism._

Oh, Styles! _she thinks and braces herself for the cluster of people making their way slowly towards them. Olly delves in first, over-exited as usual and in the ensuing melee of 1D handshakes, hugs and hellos she is somehow absorbed into the group, spun around and propelled out on the other side right in front of Harry._

_“Hello, Car.”_

_His voice is dark and soft and she has to hold in a gasp when he puts a large hand lightly on her waist and leaning down brushes a soft kiss against her cheek. “Good to see you.”_

_Her head feels dizzy like she did a tumble in a washing machine and she reflexively places her hand on his chest to steady herself. For a moment all seems to slow down and fall away, to narrow to only this: them, alone, a few inches apart, his fingers on her waist and her palm on his chest._

_All air seems to have vanished and her voice sounds weird and hollow when she finally looks up into his green eyes and says his name like it’s the last word she’ll ever speak._

_“Harry.”_

 

2011, then………

He has a way of reaching for her that does her in completely. Perhaps it’s that intense expression of longing on his young face, conveying a hunger that needs to be sated immediately, without delay or respite. No matter how tired or inconvenienced she feels it is something she can never resist: the intoxicating rush of feeling wanted, that absolute desire of his, etched into the curve of his mouth, the frown on his forehead, the impatient tone in his voice.

“Caro!”

A treble echoed in the tension of his entire body, the shade of his eyes, the very way in which he extends his hand to grab her and pull her closer, towards him so he can do whatever he feels like in that moment, smell and lick her, kiss or caress her, encircle her in his arms or tug her into his lap, haul her on top of his prone body, bronze amongst the white bedsheets, the velvet of his warm skin infinitely smoother than finest Egyptian linen.

The way he gazes at her when she wraps her hand around his cock, sheathing it with her pussy or her mouth is a look of purest devotion, the cadence of his voice as she wordlessly complies to yet another tryst – equally insatiable, her ravenous hunger matching his –the most beautiful thing she has ever heard, abandonment tingeing it to a low raspy moan.

They always get so excited in each other’s presence. A glance, a touch enough to send the pulse into overdrive, wake the greed and fuel their minds with possible scenarios, the necessity to come up with lame excuses to friends once they’ve gone public, to make hasty exits from concerts, restaurants and parties to find the nearest place of privacy and give in to each other.

Harry loves getting blown by her. Loves how she loves it.

She remembers the very first time, when he had stood there in her flat during his second visit, nervous, their fuck on the kitchen table a week before not enough to give him confidence.

He’d been biting his plumb bottom cherry lip, such a shy boy in that moment despite all his previous bravado, trembling helplessly as she had undone his fly and reached into his boxers to free him, his hoarse _Oh shit!_ as she’d slid down the length of his body to kneel before him, his head falling backwards in surrender and that incredibly sexy noise he had made when she had swallowed him whole, the feel of him on her tongue, thick and heavy and absolutely perfect.

She had spent an eternity on her knees for him, kissing, licking, sucking the prettiest dick ever, steel hardness covered by the softest, silkiest skin imaginable, encouraged by his breathless moans, the way his hands had tangled in her hair, tugging desperately on a strand and later losing hold because he was beginning to lose hold, was unraveling, falling apart for her, his voice high with short, hitched breaths, a beautiful boy, haloed by his curly hair, cheeks flushed, his mouth red from where he’d bitten his lip so hard to keep from moaning, from whispering her name, engulfed with sensation as his body had tensed, his spine arched towards, against her and he had come for her, inside her mouth, down her throat in a long, endless climax.

She remembers how greedy she had been, her lips so tight around that wonderful shaft, moving up and down to milk even the last drop of come from him. How he had groaned, overwhelmed, oversensitive, exhausted yet loving it, his eyes bright and wide as he’d stared down at her still brushing her mouth along his length, licking her lips to catch the last bit of him.

And his taste! Damn, his taste!!!

She has become instantly addicted to it, can remember the layers of his flavour, always bloody delicious to her, leaving her high and hungry for the next time. If he’s been pussy-whipped then she is spunk-drunk since that very moment, both of them spending hours between the legs of the other in the months that follow.

It’s a September weekend in the country where they 69 each other all afternoon until falling asleep and her waking up the next morning on his thigh as a pillow and with the meanest case of jawlock ever!

He is kissing her face to make it better, sweet, tiny pecks all over and declares proudly: “I’ve won!” before moving down to spend some more quality time between her legs and make her come again with those clever long fingers and that talented tongue before sliding into her and slow-fucking her like a goddamn love god.

When she voices some concern about their respective insatiability he replies: “I don’t fucking care. I want to spend the rest of my living days inside you!”

She moans at the prospect and because he has found her sweet spot, rolling his pelvis against her, pulling back before once more coming to her deep, so deep she is gasping when he asks her: “Don’t you want that too? This? Us? Fucking our goddamn brains out? Don’t you want this?”

She is only able to reply by lifting her pelvis towards him in welcome. He pulls her left leg over his shoulder, gyrating his hips in an inimitable fashion that makes her moan and lose all coherence as he thrusts harder.

“Don’t you need this? Crave this?”

He rolls them around, his hands grabbing her ass, long fingers splayed wide on each cheek, pulling them apart so his fingertips can reach that tight ring of muscle, can massage and stimulate it, get it to loosen so he can push a finger inside, slow yet insistent, curl it towards that spot where his thick cock is penetrating her pussy and the combination of both intrusions, the sensation of fullness, of his ownership makes her whimper to his question: “Won’t you miss this?”

She replies by climaxing, clenching around his cock and finger while he keeps fucking into her, his voice low and raw: “Yes baby, you would miss it so much. You need this so much. And you fucking want it so much! You want it all, Car, all the time. Me inside you. Inside your mouth, your ass, your pussy. Fucking you. Owning you. Like this, this right here!”

He licks into her opened mouth, withdraws when she tries to suck on his tongue, desperately, convulsing around him. “Me inside you, as deep as I can possibly go. And then some. Fucking, pushing, sliding, crawling into you, all the way inside you. Owning you, filling you up with my tongue, finger and cock. Fucking you ‘til I come. Come inside you, giving you some more. Cause you want that too, don’t you, Caro? You fucking want all of me. Everything. To the last drop. Am I right?”

She can only nod, clinging to him while he is grinding and thrusting into her, extending her orgasm with his movements and words, his timbre so dark and gravelly now, he sounds almost broken when he continues: “So tell me then. Tell me Car, what else do you want from me? Say it, I wanna hear it!”

 

_A pang of longing is coursing through her, her fingers flexing for a second on his blue shirt and she blushes, feeling his gaze upon her face while remembering that day, her words, the exact cadence of need in which she had whispered them, breathless, still dizzy from her high, afloat on adrenaline, her body ready to go again like a wet stretch of beach waiting to be washed under by another breaking wave of release._

_Her nails digging into his shoulder blades, her ankles locked behind his back she had whispered into Harry’s ear that she wanted him everywhere, filling each hole, every orifice in her body with him cum, saturating her ‘_ Til it bleeds from my eyes like tears!’ _and upon hearing that Styles had lost it so completely, riled up beyond reason by her words and the imagery that he’d abandoned all control and tumbled into a sexual frenzy she had never witnessed with anyone before or after him!_

_She has no idea how she manages not to die of embarrassment with him right in front of her now, his hand still on her body and her mind submerged in the filthiest memories of their past together._

_Porn, they have never had any trouble where dirty fornication is concerned. Their development as lovers had been a steady progression from cute to wild to wanton to dirty to kinky to…_

_Perverse. At least where the stuck-up middle class general public is concerned._

_If only they knew. The memory of the outrage and vile hate comments in press and on social media when her involvement with Harry had become public still makes her guts churn. The vitriolic shouts and catcalls from the fans at that 1Ds concert in Hammersmith had been like needles burrowed deep under her skin and pricking her consciousness with increasing frequency._

_Even to this day she stares at herself in the mirror sometimes when the scandal is mentioned and wonders if she has made the wrong choice, if she had been a perpetrator._

_Harry had always assured her repeatedly and insistently that it was his choice too and that he didn’t give a flying fuck about propriety, society or the opinion of fans regarding their union, the age difference, his corruption._

_He’d even denied his family a say in this, being a stubborn teenager, determined to experience everything there was while he had the chance. While there was still time before the 1D juggernaut would go stratospheric and his days would be scheduled to the very last minute and he’d be busy jetting around the globe, recording, promoting, giving interviews on radios and talk shows, filming music videos, signing books and autographs in shopping malls, performing in concert halls and later stadiums, restlessly tossing around on a tourbus bunk and finally fall asleep exhausted and lonely in strange hotel rooms with beds that felt wrong and too wide for one person alone._

_She knows he’s shared rooms and beds with the other boys, mostly Louis and Zayn. And she knows that they’ve all experimented with each other. Not surprising, given the exceptional circumstances, close confines and their raging teenage hormones._

_Harry has always been open with her about it though reluctant from the start to put a label on himself for the public’s sake. Something he has successfully avoided until now, despite some articles sprouting rumours about the real reasons for Zayn’s departure earlier this year and the LARRY conspiracies non-extinguishable as ever, despite enough proof for the contrary._

_Louis!_

_Louis has cut in between their two bodies, bright and bubbly and as usual with a sassy comment on his lips, smelling faintly of smoke and a cologne she remembers from a bathroom shelf in his and Harry’s old flat in Princess Park._

_He was always jealous of her back then, both of them competing for Harry’s attention, subtly but insistent, and an undercurrent of annoyance flares up in her for a second for separating them, upsetting their connection as he always had and she wonders if after all this time it’s still the same for him, if he considers himself to rank quite above her on Harry’s list of relevant people. Of the ones that matter to Styles, worthy of his affection and attention._

_And does she? Is she even on that list?_

_Louis is hugging her right now. It feels genuine and surely a lot of their triangle dynamic is water under the bridge now but when she lifts her gaze over his shoulder Harry’s eyes are still on her, his expression sphinx-like, unreadable, but if she’s not mistaken there is a hint of something flaring bright in his green eyes, ghosting across his face for a heartbeat, something that makes her stomach erupt in long-missed, unexpected butterflies._

_Harry is particularly beautiful in turmoil._

_He always has been, his aura intensifying and every feature of his beauty becoming more pronounced. His eyes bright, lips dark and plumbed up, his cheeks flushed due to the rush of blood, the voice – already dark and raspy – becoming agitated and tinged with raw emotion. Even his hair always seems to develop a life of its own, curling and dancing and falling over his furrowed brows._

_Those brows!!!_

_Harry can scowl in a way that would put Rochester and Darcy to shame. He always looks like a thunderstorm before his temper explodes and from the start she had wanted nothing more than to be in the center of this turbulence when it happened!_

_She had been there. Once._

_After he had fled to her house from a particularly upsetting argument with Louis but been reluctant to come close to her, acutely aware that in his current state of confusion and anger he was skirting dangerously close to lashing out and taking his frustration out on her in a physical way. He had been scared of hurting her, of losing control._

_She had told him that she wanted him to, that she wasn’t afraid and then she’d leaned in close, placed his large trembling hands on her body and whispered: “Feed me your wrath!”_

_So he had._

_She shudders with the fragments of visuals from that day, the mental onslaught of sensual snapshots, flickers of feelings, sensations, her core contracting in reminiscence._

_“Are you okay?” Louis ask, bringing her back to the present and she nods, laughs and throws a lie against the truth, against the coiling heat deep in her body. “Of course, just cold.”_

_But her eyes are on Harry standing right behind him as Louis rubs his hands up and down her arms to warm her up. Harry, whose face is once again becoming a winter sky with storm clouds rolling in._

_She opens her mouth to say something, not sure what, intent to alleviate, defuse the growing tension but before she can the AD addresses her and Olly, Louis turns to Simon Cowell and within seconds the whole cluster of people is split up into various groups and then 1D is being ushered away but not before Harry can turn around and gaze back at her over his shoulder, a whole damn epic in his jade-coloured eyes._

_This is far from over!  His look, green fire, wordlessly conveying the message_ I’ll see you later!

_And of course she’ll see him later. She is co-presenting the event he and his bandmates perform at and there will be an afterparty because it’s the X-Factor final and 1D are going on hiatus after tonight and they’ll both be attending since the show is her employer and was his breakthrough platform and, God, by the intensity in his eyes a few glances from across the room will not be enough, not for him and not for her because instantaneously it feels as if there has been no water under the bridge at all, that the riverbed has been dry all this time._

_Or rather the river has always been there, flowing calmly, shallow and pleasantly serene but suddenly there’s an undercurrent, a rip tide dragging her away, into the deep, out towards something magnitudinous._

_And it feels as if something profound has just been articulated between them but not been verbally phrased, not spoken aloud. At least not yet._

_Now it’s all rushing back in, like a tsunami to the shore and it feels a lot like unfinished business and picking up where they’ve left off before and she remembers their hookup from two years ago…_

2013, then……

 _London is such an incestuous fish bowl of party venues, especially if you belong to the celebrity category!_ she thinks and though she hates referring to herself as a prominent person she can’t deny that as a TV host she lives in the public eye and at her age feels more comfortable in the elite company of private member’s clubs and bars in Mayfair and Soho than being center of a mosh pit with the sweaty masses in a derelict fabric in Peckham.

Unfortunately the VIP scene in London can be astonishingly small and the danger of running into ex-boyfriends surprisingly high. After dinner she has tagged along to Dean Street with a friend, agreed to meet old college mates, vaguely aware of the date but she is still surprised nonetheless when she learns that of all people at Groucho Club tonight Harry Styles is holding court.

It’s his birthday, friends have rented an upper floor and she can already see the headline in the Dailymail that her and him have partied at the same venue and are clearly shagging each other’s brains out.

 _If only!_ she sighs and contemplates making her excuses for a second. But to hell with it! They have parted ways amiably over more than a year ago, albeit followed by major radio silence but he has never been anything but kind to her and if they cross paths tonight despite two restaurants and several function rooms to entertain his posse in, so be it!

Downstairs in the Soho Bar she subconsciously keeps herself poised and alert the entire evening, only half listening to the conversations around her, playing with her champagne cocktail and wondering when he’ll show up. It gets late and she is almost disappointed that apparently he has stayed upstairs.

While standing in a small circle of media people talking, she finally feels him from across the room when he enters. It’s the way all molecules suddenly seem to realign themselves and when she looks up from her drink over her friend’s shoulder he is there: a vision in a white v-necked t-shirt under a slim cut smoking blazer in midnight blue.

He clearly has come a long way from the plaid shirts and sweaters of 2011, his mop of hair less tousled glory and more structured quiff and the last of baby fat shed somewhere between 1Ds successful first Up All Night tour and now, just in time for their second.

Take Me Home. 

 _Aptly named!_ she thinks and ignores the thought that probably half  the people in this room would like to whisk Mr Styles away to bed, blow and bone him senseless.

And she’s one of them. _Damn!_

It’s not like she hasn’t enjoyed sex in the year since they’ve split up. She has dated a few guys and she did have fun with them but not all the time. And sometimes she hadn’t been able to come at all. It’d actually been quite a lot of hit and miss.

With Harry she’d always been already halfway there. He had turned her on so much that by the time he’d fingered, licked or fucked her pussy she would come instantly, only for him to continue and get her off a second and often third time in the process.

She remembers one night not too long into their relationship. It had been a few days after his epic fight with Louis when he had fed her his wrath and given her a taste of the intensity he was capable of.

It had probably been the beginning of his darkening. He was still that sweet 17-year-old boy, innocent, wide-eyed and curious. Eager to please her, playful and cute. But there were more and more moments when he became a darker, sensual creature. Intuitive, raw and feral. Hungry, demanding and unapologetic in his desires. A creature of relentless sexual energy.

That night she’d let Harry go fully alpha male on her as soon as he had walked through her front door with that look in his eyes and his voice – husky from another busy band day with exhausting promo interviews and a long recording session – ordering her “To bed. Now!”

For a moment she had thought that maybe he was tired and wanted to cuddle, wrap himself around her naked body, face buried into her ample chest and fall asleep as he loved to do. But as she had walked down her corridor towards the bedroom, had heard him drop his jacket, then the thud of his bag, followed by the clank of a belt buckle and the rustle of clothes he had been radiating energy like a fucking hurricane. So by the time they got to the bed she’d had some time to brace herself. Or so she’d thought.

He hadn’t cuddled her. He had ripped her clothes off and come over her like a storm, fucking her so hard and so long that she was certain to be bruised in delicate places.

She hadn’t cared though.

Certainly not during when he had fucked himself into her so deep that it had felt as if he was up in her throat, had bent her into positions she didn’t think the Kamasutra featured, had invaded her pussy, mouth and ass with cock, fingers and tongue, jerked into her fist and between her tits, had drenched and marked her with his come.

And also not after when she had taken stock of every ache in her body, gingerly lowering herself into a steaming bath while Harry had slept, oblivious, skin still shimmering with sweat and his hair a dark curly mess against the rumpled white sheets.

“God!” She’d sighed, half submerged in the steaming water, unsure if she addressed the heavens or spoke to this new dark deity she had encountered. A demon of salacious sensuality, angelically beautiful but wicked like Satan himself and with a level of perversion well beyond his years.

This boy could fuck as though the devil himself had ordered him to it and taught him every trick in hell! He didn’t shy away from any variety of sex, however kinky, was all instinctual animal, hungry and wild and relentless and without fear or social inhibition.

He was fully beast. And he was hers.

Every opportunity he got, every time he was released from the studio or promo duties he found his way to her street, into her flat, between her thighs and buried to the hilt, clutching her body as she convulsed around him, coaxing release after release from his willing, insatiable and gorgeously large, throbbing cock.

Caro had licked her lips recalling those searing long hours and hissed when she had brushed her fingertips underwater against her still swollen, oversensitive clit. He had wrecked her. And yet the desire, the hunger for him was still simmering low in her belly, pulsing between her legs. When would they eventually tire of each other? Would they ever?

It seemed as if each tryst only made them hungrier for more. A greediness, an obsession with the body of the other person. The feel, the scent, the taste of them. They were so attuned to each other by now. She only had to see him from her window entering her front yard or hear his voice over the phone or catch the scent of his skin still lingering in the folds of a shirt he’d left behind to be ready, to be wet, to be halfway GONE.

When she had mentioned it to him during another lazy Saturday in bed he’d laughed and said: “I am surprised every time that I don’t get arrested for indecent behaviour upon arrival on your doorstep for the hard-on I am sporting as soon as I enter your postcode area!”

And she had laughed and loved him a little more for his honesty, for his absolute refusal to be anything other than this unapologetically physical, sex-hungry teenage boy who had decided to squeeze the very last drop of delicious juice out of the life he’d been given with all its opportunities and the experiences it had to offer.

“I should probably feel guilty for corrupting your innocence the way I do but I find it hard to do so when I am enjoying myself so much in your company.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to feel guilty as I can look after my own corruption perfectly myself, Caro. And after yours too!”

And with that he had turned her around, still hard, still randy, disappeared between her cheeks to eat out her ass like a Gault Millau dish and then fucked her until she had come with several colourful curses on her lips. 

“Shit!” The expletive falls from her mouth as she watches him interact with people at the bar, throwing that fucking lightbeam of a smile around, and realises that she still wants him, that distance and time and the scandal have done nothing to quell the instant yearning her body experiences. She wants to be cool, superior but she knows in her heart of hearts that if he said _Now!_ she’d be on her back with her legs spread wide for him.

It angers her. That unbelievable hold he still has over her, inevitably, like gravitational pull. She only hopes that she has a fraction of that when it comes to him. That whatever allure she held for him, for that wide-eyed kid back then hasn’t vanished completely. From the way his eyes find hers in the party melee from the far side of the room she might be right and her pulse quickens with the thought of _What if?_

She is glad when a waiter passes behind her and she twists around and grabs another champagne flute off his tray to calm her nerves. When she turns around again Harry is unexpectedly standing right in front of her and she curses in shock.

“FUCK!!!”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, giving his darling face a comical look and his lips curl in amusement. “Right now? I thought I’d say hello to you first! Hi, Caro.”

For a second she contemplates tossing the rest of bubbly in his face for that sass but the cadence of his voice when he says her name has her downing the liquid to moisten her suddenly dry throat instead.

“Hello Harry,” she croaks afterwards and somehow finds the strength to remain perfectly still when he leans forward to ghost his mouth against her cheek in a kiss.

“You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, you too…. suits you.” She almost chokes on a breath and gestures at his outfit.

“Yeah, sometimes they do. Dress me, I mean,” he adds when he sees her confused face.

“I meant it looks good on you.”

“Oh, of course. Right, um, thank you.”

He fidgets nervously and she wonders if the hold she had is still very much in place. Her friend and the others have retreated, giving them some privacy and she decides to test the waters. “So, were you propositioning me a moment ago?”

He blushes. “Um, it was meant as a joke.”

“Oh, I thought for a sec you were offering.” She shrugs her shoulders in nonchalant regret. “You weren’t? Too bad!”

She smiles at him, an easy, carefree smile, like this is not a big deal to her, just a silly misunderstanding.

His face is a study in absolute confusion. “Would you want me to offer you…?”

“A fuck? Oh sweetpea.” Caro gives a pearly cascade of laughter while resting her flat hand on his chest to steady her as she throws her head back in mirth.  She’s slightly tipsy from the bottle of Shiraz for dinner and _How many champagne cocktails did I have since coming here?_ and the intoxication of his nearness. “If Harry Styles offered his services, how could a girl ever say no to that?”

His face transforms from confused to annoyed and that stormy frown and vertical line appearing between his brows does not fail to get her to clench her thighs in reflex at the instant moisture gathering between her legs.

“You don’t need to laugh at me,” he growls. “Because we both know that I wouldn’t offer and you wouldn’t say yes.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“You would?” He looks incredulous.

“Why don’t you ask me and find out?”

“Caro.”

“Harry.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t play.”

“Who says I’m playing? I might be dead serious right now and besides… I recall that you used to love our games, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“So?”

“So what, Caro?”

“Why don’t you ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if I want to fuck you?”

“You’re already fucking with my brain alright, Car!”

“So then ask me if I want to fuck your body too. If I want to sit down on that lovely thick cock of yours and ride it for the rest of the night, bounce my tits into your face so you can suck on them. If I then want you to turn me around so you can take me from behind, so we can watch ourselves fucking in the big mirror opposite my bed. If I want you to slam into me so hard you drive me face-first into the pillows, muffling my screams as you get me good, so damn good. If I want you to change your mind after a while and go for my ass instead, working me open with your talented tongue and fingers before ravishing me, your fingers playing on my clit as you’re pounding me until I come, clenching around you so good, so tight it sets you off too and you come, filling me up with your cum like you used to, like you loved to do before falling asleep still inside of me, always inside of me like it’s home.”

When she stops speaking – _And where in God’s name did this tirade come from?_ – and looks up at him his face is a cubism of emotions: shock, joy, confusion, arousal and hunger, burning hunger yet she’s still surprised at this easy win when he cups her face between slightly trembling hands, leans in and ignoring where they are, who’s around and already staring, kisses her on the mouth with a mix of reverence, capitulation and desperate need and in a fashion nobody can mistake for the exchange of a congratulatory birthday snog.

He kisses her in the way that makes her knees buckle, floods her senses with his gorgeous scent and sweet taste of his lips, envelops her in that all-encompassing hug as his tongue familiarises itself once again with every flavour of her mouth, pulls her closer, flush against him, audience be damned, so she feels him hard and ready against her hip, moans softly into their caress as he drinks her in like a man parched and his voice is raspy and low when he finally ends the kiss and whispers against her temple: “Let’s go then!”

***

Impatient they don’t bother with undressing, the logistics of sneakily leaving the club unnoticed by paps together and the taxi ride having been torture enough. Barely through her apartment door they give each other just enough time to drop coats and push clothes out of the way, enough to gain access.

She’s pulling him against her by his cock. That beauty he’d used to make her scream with lust. He always got so incredibly hard for her. Still does and it makes her weak in the knees anticipating that gorgeousness buried once again inside her, filing her to the limit and owning her to the last particle of her being as he is lifting her up with his muscular arms like she is a doll for him, his big hands on her ass while her legs clasp around his narrow waist.

Her fingers claw into his back as her eyes and mouth open wide in shocked disbelief at Harry’s first intrusion. Caroline’s forgotten just how thick he is, how incredibly stretched she feels. And seeing the way his pupils dilate as he sinks deeper into her wetness she knows it turns him on beyond anything seeing her completely overwhelmed by his size and that a dark part in him wants nothing more than to just slam himself into her and pound her pussy to ecstasy.

But he takes his time, reigns himself in, leisurely thrusting up into her, cradled between her thighs. She has found some kind of leverage with her back and feet propped up against the sides of the kitchen doorframe. Harry’s face is tucked into the crook of her neck, hot mouth just below her jaw, against the pulse, close enough so she can hear every low long gasp as he finds a rhythm, slow and dragging, the push and pull of his cock inside her exquisite torture of too much yet not enough.

Held up by his arms and pinned to the frame by his groin she is free to let her hands rake through that glorious hair, muss up the neat style into magnificent chaos. Slinging one arm around his neck for leverage she touches the side of his face with the other hand, fingertips carthographing the curve of his brow, the peach fuzz of hairs below his ear, that lush swell of his bottom lip.

Damn, how she has missed that mouth! It’s dark, sweet flavours and the unique way he used to curl his tongue around hers to tease and arouse her. She needs it, now, to make up for a 12-month draught and hungrily folds her lips over his, devouring that cherry-red plumpness, then sucks his tongue into her mouth, while digging her nails into his shoulder and grinding down onto his cock because more, MORE!

He groans into their kiss, picking up pace and intensity of his thrusts, their nonverbal communication as easy and instinctual as ever. She loves it, the effortlessness of them falling back into old habits, picking up where they have left off as if no time has passed and they haven’t spent a year apart. Their bodies are still attuned to each other and she slightly loosens the hold of her legs around his hips, let’s gravity assist her in sinking even further down onto him to the point where she whimpers with each thrust because he is THERE!!! 

A minute later he fucks her through the first orgasm, hard and fast, knows that she will come again on his cock without a touch to her clit at least once if not twice more, that his penetration is enough to get her off and she feels him smile against her cheek while she clenches rhythmically around him, pleased that he can still make her unravel for him, control her like that.

“Damn, Caro!” His growl is low against her ear, breathless and enraptured. She laughs at the way he masters her, delighted by her own body and its willingness to succumb to him.

“Don’t stop,” she begs, “Please don’t stop.”

He kisses her, hungrily licks with the tip of his tongue between her lips before whispering against her mouth. “Fuck, I’ve missed this.” 

“I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.” It’s sincere and she feels it in the way he comes to her, another change in his tempo from the frantic grind back to a slow, dragging roll of his pelvis, indulgent, savouring the feel of her around him and she knows he’s gonna take his time.

***

Harry is here, once again. In her house, in her bed, inside her body. The boy who had once made a valiant attempt at eating his way around every single food stall in Borough Market – and almost succeeded. His hunger had known no bounds back then and she had always loved that about him.

His endless appetite for food. And for her. Greedy, ravenous, insatiable.

His only mode of operation had been to consume and for her to offer. That’s how they had always functioned best together. Two polar opposites yet perfect in their combination.

Nothing has changed in that regard. He is still a wild beast tearing into her, feasting and devouring, his large, strong hands gripping and pulling her closer, positioning her so he can reach whatever he wants to bite, lick, suck or fuck with his tongue, his fingers, those clever fingers who still know everything about her, how to pinch, tease and arouse her, to open her up, bit by bit until she is wide for him once more, wet and gaping and ready for his cock, that always overwhelming in its size, almost cruelly unforgiving in its thrusts, unimaginably perfect thing that invades and conquers, subjugates and owns her to its last claiming-territory inch.

She already knew back then that he was exceptional but these days he has become…

She can’t think of a word or an adjective adequately suited to describe what Harry Styles is like in bed, how he makes you feel when he fucks you. Thrusting, grinding, surging up inside her so she opens her mouth on another breathless gasp because somehow she still needs to make more space for him, accommodate, is devastated once more.

Pinned to the mattress by his weight, his fingers threaded through hers while he holds her down with his relentless body he reaps her like autumn grains, lets her trickle through his fingers, over and over, as ever sensual, satanic, salacious – her angel, her demon, her God.

He is holy communion. Time ceases to matter.

The sun is already coming up pale and wintery by the time they finally stop. He’s had her in more ways than she can remember, her body tired and sore, sweat and come drying on her skin. He’s lying half on top of her, chuckling lightly against her skin, his lush mouth stretched into a slow, delirious grin.

Harry is rarely less than stunningly beautiful, even more so when smiling with his unparalleled radiance, but this completely fucked-out look is the one she still likes best on him: tawny skin shimmering with sweat, hair messy and wild around his face, cheeks and lips flushed pink, those wide, green eyes bright and pupils dilated in post-orgasmic haze.

He’s blinking slowly in exhausted serenity, those long lashes fluttering as his breathing calms and slows until he finally drifts off into blissful sleep, cock still inside and his long limbs still entangled with her.

He is home.

***

It’s late afternoon when she wakes up, the February sun already setting low in the sky again.  They are lying wrapped around each other, his back to her chest. He is still such a little spoon, unusual and incredibly endearing for such a tall and self-assured young man.

They used to always end up in this position and it warms her heart that things haven’t changed. Recalling all the mornings she’s woken up to him in front of her with that vast expanse of his back like a wall, a shield to hide behind, she runs her palm across his waist and along his arm. He grabs her hand, threads their fingers together and pulls her closer.

“Sssleepmore.” His voice is husky and slurred and she feels it rumbling in his body against her chest.

Taking a moment she finally manages to formulate an important sentence. “It’s late, do you have to be anywhere?”

“Jussshhere.”

She waits until his breathing has evened out again then carefully gets up to have a quick shower. The hot water is wonderful and she stands under it for long minutes, rinsing off sweat, yesterday’s make-up and his come. Lathering up she’s taken stock of every scratch, love bite and faint bruise where he has grabbed and held her too tightly.

Harry has marked her and it fills her with warm pride to be his once again, to feel claimed.

He is still asleep when she gets back to the bedroom and even though she feels slightly hungry the chance to climb back into bed and mold herself back to his naked torso holds more appeal than eating.

***

Their sleep pattern is upset. He wakes her up in the middle of the night ravenous for food and her body.

They fuck then relocate to the kitchen to microwave some Chinese leftovers. He eats out her pussy on the kitchen table for dessert, garnished with a mini tub of Häagen Dasz Vanilla. Back in the bedroom she blows him and he does something very un-vanilla to her after, making her scream and lose all coherence.

She is still coming down from her last climax when he spoons her this time, one leg between her thighs, shoved high so she is basically sitting on it, can clench around his muscular thigh in aftershocks of orgasm, his come still seeping out of her, a muscular arm slung over her side, holding her close, one hand splayed wide over her breast.

Complete ownership. She adores it.

***

When they fuck they become each other’s God. Nothing else exists. Nothing matters but the way their bodies fit around each other, slide and drag, push and pull.

Harry stays at her house for three consecutive days. They don’t bother getting dressed once. Instead kissing, touching, fucking in every room, on every floor and piece of furniture until they are both sore and yet unable to stop.

She rides him, wild and hard, impaling herself deeply on his cock, her hands tugging on his hair, her breasts in his face and all they can think of is bliss, white-hot, all-consuming bliss.

Her greed and lust for him seems to feed his hunger and he is desperately ravenous. As long as she desires him like that his body is unable to cease serving her, stays hard and eager and answers every circle of her hips, each swipe of tongue with equal if not stronger fervor: a deeper thrust, a hungrier kiss.

Now he is hers to take, to own, and he loves it, high on adrenaline and pheromones, moving under her, up, against, into her. Wordlessly begging through wanton arches to take and claim and consume him, all he offers and gives.

He seems at peace once she has turned into a vessel and slumped down exhausted on his glistening body, their breaths calming, their hearts slowing, sweat mixing and all he’s given, lavished, gifted to her in seemingly endless completion and ultimate abandon finally hers.

He loves that she never wants him to leave her body, the tight heat of her keeping him in, safe, warm, in paradise, while her body is a blanket, her hair a shroud covering, protecting him and he goes to sleep, her face pressed to his neck, their fingers threaded through each other until it is time again and they wake, bright-eyed and covetous once more, neither of them sated yet.

Perhaps they never will be.

***

The day before Harry has to leave for tour rehearsals she finally asks him to do that thing to her again, the one he’d done a year ago back in December when they had dipped into all facets of sexual pleasure together, constantly getting more daring and dirtier and darker.

It was a subject they had been skirting around almost from the very beginning of their affair: dominant sex, violent sex. They had brushed it a few times but never delved into it, perhaps scared of the line they might cross, the irrevocability of those actions, the change of their relationship. Yet it was something that had constantly lingered in the back of their minds like a red door at the edge of their vision, taunting them with its presence.

Caroline vividly remembers the day that her and Harry had first truly tapped into that darkness together. Staring at Harry’s hands had brought up her vivid imaginations; those long, bony fingers, wrapped around porcelain, his wide palms cradling the sides of a vintage café au lait bowl and that almost delicate-looking wrist peeking out from the cuff of his chunky-knit sweater. They’d been sitting in front of her fireplace with two mugs of hot cocoa after a snow walk in the cold December air when she had finally brought up the courage to tell him about her fantasies.

“Your hands, I cannot stop thinking about them. Fantasising about them. I want you to… do things to me with them.”

“What things?” His face, so young and innocent, curious and eager had almost been too much to continue speaking.

“Dark things, aggressive things.”

He’d frowned. “Like… Hold you down?”

“Yeah. But more. Bruise me, choke me. Hit me. Punch me… And…”

“And what?”

“And maybe… put them inside me…”

He’d looked at her, not comprehending at first and when he’d done his eyes had become impossibly wide. And dark. “You mean…??? Oh fuuuuck, Caroline!”

She remembers that day, that weekend, it is imprinted in her memory in all its dirty, carnal and scorching intensity. Her flat a place of sensual hell, fiery red emotion of pain and pleasure merging against the snowstorm raging outside! Her body convulses subconsciously, remembering what had happened to her, what she had let Harry do to her. What she had asked him to do, begged. How they had taken their relationship to a whole different level.

Maybe that had been the beginning of their end. Both of them shocked at the territory they had entered and at the way they had secretly delighted in being there.

She still cannot fathom that she’s had this experience with him, especially considering his age back then. He’d been so young and such levels of carnality ought to be reserved for older people. To discover such darkness within herself had been one thing but to find such depravity in this boy, this 17-year-old manchild, had been equally shocking and seductive, had terrified her to the core and yet mesmerised her.

He’d become her dark angel, an ambivalent creature capable of the most exhilarating sensual experiences: light and dark, pleasure and pain, soft and brutal, kind and terrifying, obliging and demanding, selfless and egoistical, devout and dominant.

She had known back then that she would never do this with anyone else but him, would never find anyone else like him to trust so much, lose herself to so completely, find such mind-shattering completion with. It’s the reason she asks him to do it to her one more time. Before he has to leave, will be gone for the next 9 months, touring around the world and she’ll miss him with the desperation of an addict.

Caroline wonders why it is apparently something that always happens just before they have to part ways again. Maybe she needs to work up the nerve to ask him for it. Or maybe it is something that they both need to recover from afterwards. Or maybe it is something that is so final that there is nowhere else to go from after.

Either way, she asks him to do it and he complies, not as apprehensive as the first time but still a bit nervous and endearingly shy yet somehow eager and almost relieved that he gets to live out this dark side of himself. Something he probably doesn’t show to anyone else but her. She likes that idea a lot.

_Sitting in the auditorium with her colleague during their late lunch break she listens to 1D sound-checking, her hands balled into fists and her whole body a single knot of hollow want and painful longing. Olly is busy texting a friend a few seats along so she can watch the boys but mostly Harry without being scared of giving herself away, of anyone noticing just how much she is still not over her former fling, fuckfiend, formidable lover, whatever term to use to describe their relationship._

_His look earlier has been telling enough to know that once the show is finished there will be at least some sort of interaction between them at the afterparty tonight and she isn’t sure if she is ready for what might follow. They do have a way of falling back together when meeting on social occasions, of losing themselves to the other one for a night or a week or several months. They are like former addicts relapsing and she wonders if the third time is the charm and what it would be like to be with him for the rest of her life. To stay hooked._

***

 


End file.
